Full of Broken Thoughts
by Helike
Summary: Murtagh is forced to face his greatest enemy. Will he be saved? Spoilers for "Eldest". Oneshot.


Failed attempt at writing something that is not _Naruto_ related :sweatdrop: First, and probably the last, time I've written something from the _Inheritance Cycle_.

**Recommended listening:** "Hurt" by Johnny Cash (assuming that you want to end up feeling depressed). The lyrics are scarily accurate in some way.  
**  
Warnings:** ANGST. Spoilers for _Eldest_. Technically it should be placed after Thorn hatches, but before Galbi manages to make him bigger with magic. Well... At least I didn't make Murtagh more OOC than the movie had.  
**Summary:** Murtagh is forced to face his greatest enemy. Will he be saved? (Lame summaries are lame, btw.)

**I do not own the Inheritance Cycle.**

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**FULL OF BROKEN THOUGHTS**

Sometimes he hates nights. They are too long and too dark, filled with nothing more than anxiety and sense of loneliness. Feelings that are so easy to suppress during days, always go out of control during nights, making him too vulnerable to depressive thoughts that appear then, haunting him like some sinister ghosts.

"And maybe they are ghosts in fact," he thinks, rubbing his forehead and letting his glance slide over the dark, unfurnished room he's been held prisoner in. "Ghosts of the past that should have been long forgotten but it isn't." It can't be, as every time he closes his eyes, there are things and events that he will see over and over again.

There are moments when he remembers his mother – the woman whose face he forgot long time ago and who, in his memories, is nothing more than some ephemeral being. Sometimes he curses her for having left him with the father that never loved him and questions all the maternal love that she could have had for him.

At the same time, however, there are some other thoughts, some other memories... something almost as unreal as some dream seen long time ago and long forgotten. There are times when he remembers a gentle touch of a warm hand on his forehead and the same hand brushing his hair before his having fallen asleep. This one memory brings another – quiet words whispered into his ear by a soft, soothing voice. He can't remember the words, but he still remembers the feeling they gave – something warm and wonderful, hard to describe with words; something that would ease his fear, and make him forget about sadness. Something that would make him feel better no matter how lonely he felt. They all are glimpses of the past – some blurry visions that seem to be nothing more than dreams or illusions – and even he is unsure if they are true or not. There are moments, however, when he wants them to be his real memories – the only memories and the proof of the mother's love that he has ever had.

There are other things he remembers, like a feeling of loneliness that has accompanied him for the most of his life, never disappearing and always getting stronger with every year that passes. There are all these twinges of jealousy he felt years ago, while watching other children playing with one another or being scolded by their parents. Back then he wouldn't have minded being scolded as well, not in such a way, as it would have meant that somebody cared about him; cared enough to be worried about him and his safety.

He isn't that little boy anymore, but even now there are moments when he watches parents with their children – working, playing or just being with one another. He'll observe them, fighting with mixed emotions aroused by the view, and then he'll turn round and go away, feeling even more lonely and alienated. Years have passed since he was a child... but nothing has changed.

He shudders and moves his eyes to the ceiling, trying to focus his mind on something that would free him from these depressive thoughts. For a short while he thinks about Tornac, once again remembering the time when Tornac taught him the art of swordplay and dueling. The man was a demanding teacher – one of these that would be more eager to criticize than to praise – and someone who'd never be overly expressive or emotional. Back then Tornac was the only person who seemed to care about him at least a bit and over the years they even developed some kind of a bond – the bond that was strong enough to make his teacher accompany him when he decided to flee from Urû'baen. Tornac proved himself to be a loyal companion and a great teacher – after all Murtagh is still alive only thanks to what he learnt from him – but... Tornac is dead and nothing will bring him back.

His fists clench when a sudden stab of pain shoots through his chest at the thought. He takes a deep breath, but the feeling doesn't disappear, so he changes the object of his ponderings and focuses his mind on these few good memories that he has.

He recalls his first meeting with Eragon. He still is not sure what exactly made him save the people he had never met before. Looking back, he can say that his actions – not quite thoughtless, but not quite planned, too – resulted in making his own future even more complicated, but... Could he really say that he regrets them?

He still remembers how he was sitting by the fire, watching the unconscious Eragon lying on the other side of it and Saphira protecting the boy in the way that a mother could protect her own child. Fascinated, he focused his mind on observing them both, quietly admiring the bond between the dragon and the Rider.

Next few days he spent debating with himself, trying to decide how much he could trust his unexpected companions and wondering where exactly the decision he had made would take him. The days that came after – thrilling and rather hectic at the same time – were probably the most normal period of his life. Even though he was a fugitive back then, he truly enjoyed his newly discovered freedom and the new, unknown to him before, world, in which friendship was a gift and bonds weren't only a burden.

Millions images flash through his mind within seconds, reminding him of the time he spent with Eragon and, later, with the Varden. The escape from Gil'ead, their crossing the Hadarac and the insane race to the Varden in order to save and to be saved. Long talks to Eragon, watching Eragon while his practicing the magic, the first clash and the first argument. Eragon's serious face when he announced not to have revealed Murtagh's true identity to the Varden and seeing Eragon after the battle, pale and lifeless, almost dying because of the wound that the Shade's sword had left on his back. Long hours he spent on waiting until Eragon woke up... and that sense of union he felt with Eragon in the end.

This... and more. The Varden, the imprisonment, the battle under the Farthen Dur. Nasuada, talks to Nasuada, Nasuada's smiling face, her eyes sparkling with humour and the same eyes flashing with anger or determination... There are so many chaotic images that appear from nowhere and keep changing from one to the other until he finally remembers _that_ day again.

The sense of loss overwhelms him for a short while. He doesn't even feel the cold of the stone wall behind his back. He keeps clenching and unclenching his fists, not quite aware of the activity, when depressive thoughts fill his mind again. Is he really doomed to lose it all? To lose everything he valued? What was his escape from Urû'baen for, if he's back to this city again? What was Tornac's death for? What kind of fate awaits him now?

It's then that fear appears. He hugs himself trying to fight back this overwhelming feeling; the feeling strong enough to paralyze his will for a short while. Ironically, this fear brings some other memories. All of sudden he remembers his own words, shouted at Eragon, about what it meant to live in fear.

"Even he... couldn't understand." His lips press in a thin line, when he recalls the horrified look in the young Rider's face after his witnessing Torkenbrand's death. That expression didn't change despite Murtagh's explanation, making him think that Eragon didn't _want_ to understand. "He didn't want to understand..." he repeats quietly.

The fear disappears. He tenses up, his teeth and fists clench, the eyes narrow. His mind fills with emotions – conflicting and intense, dark and overwhelming. These feelings, however, quickly fade, leaving a sense of monstrous injustice.

Why is it that they all are so quick to condemn, but no one understands? Why does no one understand what it means to live like some chased animal and learn to trust no one, looking for some hidden intents in every deed and word? Why does no one understand how it is to wake late in the night, with a hand clutched on a dagger, reacting to some unidentified noises? Why does no one understand how it is to live watching one's own back all the time? Why does no one understand? Why does none of them _want_ to understand?

His anger changes into despair. He covers his eyes with his hand as if this simple gesture could ease the pain he feels and fight back his loneliness. Slowly, his mind sinks deeper and deeper into this overwhelming feeling of hopelessness.

Suddenly, a quiet sound draws his attention to his surrounding. Disturbed, he raises his head quickly and freezes when his eyes meet a pair of the red eyes belonging to the other captive held in this room.

_My dragon._

For a while he stares at the little creature sitting in front of him, in the moonlight slanting through the only window in the room, high yet narrow. Silver beams move over the red back and flanks and dance on the snow white talons and neck spikes. The red eyes seem to gleam and the scales almost shine. The dragon makes no move and for a short while Murtagh feels that he's being observed. Finally, Thorn tilts his head, squeaks quietly and comes closer to his Rider.

As if enchanted, he reaches forth his hand, touches the dragon's head and rubs it. The dragon squeaks again and nuzzles against his hand. A trace of the smile plays across Murtagh's lips when he sees Thorn arch his back like a cat.

Suddenly, the dragon moves. Thorn's eyes focus on him, he almost gets lost in their ruby depths and... _something_ happens.

His eyes widen when Thorn touches his mind, filling it with his own feelings and emotions – strong, mixed, complicated... They wash through Murtagh, unstoppable, making him feel like a little leaf floating at the top a tidal wave. They ease his pain and grief and stop his anger, replacing darkness and cold with light and warmness, and boost his hope again. Finally, one feeling stronger than everything else appears, expressing Thorn's thoughts without words.

_You're not alone. I understand._

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_THE END

**A/N:** Murtagh has officially placed first on my personal list of the most _uncooperative_ characters ever. Sorry... I tried, but this fic is not what I wanted it to be.


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